I can still hear you
by Nova-chan
Summary: For a prompt at Sherlock bbc on livejournal. Sherlock loses his sight, John loses his voice. How do they cope?
1. Chapter 1

John Watson woke up with a headache. He had been laying down for too long on a pillow that was too hard. He looked around the room. Hospital. No clue how he got there. Wasn't the first time.

He looked at himself, at the same time trying to feel for any injuries. Nice to have morphine again; it made all those horrible little feelings of pain go away. He had a cast on his arm, and a white cotton bandage around his shoulder. A little banged up here and there, but otherwise all right.

"John?" said a familiar voice from the other side of the room. He looked over at the other hospital bed and set upon the prone figure there, nearly as white as the bed sheets.

Suddenly, with terrifying intensity, the memories came back to him. The explosion, Moriarty, Sherlock pointing a gun, the pool, the sudden rush of warmth as the building caught fire. John started to hyperventilate from the recall. A thousand blurred messages scrambled through his brain: have to get out, have to save Sherlock, have to swim, have to run, have to duck and cover, have to survive…

"John? Is that you? What the hell…" That voice anchored him, brought him back. John took deep breaths, trying to ground himself in his own body.

John looked over to the next bed. Sherlock's face was burned. Likely his forearms too, as they were covered up with bandages. But his face…Sherlock's unblemished face had been spoiled by angry red marks and swelling. Sherlock must have only recently woken, because he was moving about on his bed restlessly, and tentatively touching his face with his fingertips.

One of Sherlock's eyes (as the other one was swollen shut) fluttered open and he blinked several times. Then he gasped. "John! John! Doctor?" He began groping in the bed for the Nurse Call button.

_Sherlock, it's all right, calm down_ John meant to say, only no words were forthcoming. John instinctively put a hand to his throat, wondering at the bizarre phenomenon. He tried forcing out a word, a syllable, any sound, but he was unable.

John saw that Sherlock was becoming more frantic so he slipped out of his own bed and padded over to Sherlock's. Unable to use his voice to console his friend, John reached out with his good hand and touched lightly on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock gasped. "John?" he whispered. His voice was so unlike him, so fearful.

John took Sherlock's hand in his and gave it a squeeze. Sherlock brought his other hand to join and squeezed back.

"John, I can't see. I'm blind," Sherlock muttered. Soon the words were spilling out of him, toppling over one another. "I don't remember what happened…I can't think…I-I feel my face is burned, but I don't know why or how…"

John was cursing himself for being unable to say anything. Sherlock was panicking, getting lost within his thoughts. _Sherlock…_ John clambered into the bed on Sherlock's side and held him as he degenerated to near hysterics.

"John, what happened?" Sherlock said somberly. "Please…just tell me if I'm going to be blind forever."

John wished that he could tell Sherlock that he didn't know, that he hoped everything would be all right and that Sherlock would be able to see and that he would be able to talk again…but he couldn't. He stroked Sherlock's arm lightly.

"John, say something," Sherlock demanded, his unseeing eye staring in the direction of John's face. "For God's sake…did someone die?"

Gingerly, John took Sherlock's hands and placed them on the side of his face while shaking his head.

"What…John, what's wrong?" Sherlock said quietly.

John put one of Sherlock's hands to his throat and swallowed impulsively.

"Your…throat. Your throat was injured?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded, as Sherlock's other hand was still in contact with John's face.

Sherlock stared into nothingness for a minute before he chuckled silently. "Well, aren't we a pair?" he muttered. 

/

"Tell me if you see anything-a shape a movement, lights, colors-anything at all." John watched as Sherlock's doctor shined a penlight in front of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock barely contained his irritation. "I don't see anything, doctor, but I can smell your overpowering cologne. I think you should know that it does not, in fact, cover up the odor from the rancorous curry you had for lunch."

The doctor glanced at John, who shrugged. "Ah…yes, ok. Sorry about that, then, Mr. Holmes. Anyhow, I think the only logical course of action is to wait for the burns to heal and see what we've got to work with," the doctor said. "I know that isn't what you wanted to hear, but I have to be honest with you."

"Fine, sure," Sherlock spat, crossing his arms in a childish gesture. "What happened to John? Why can't he talk?"

The doctor went over to where John was perched on the side of his bed. "Yes…Dr. Watson, none of the scans we did at your intake showed any type of injury to your throat whatsoever. I'm going to schedule an evaluation with our primary psychiatrist."

John snarled his aversion. _I'm not crazy, you git. Obviously there's a physical cause._

"Good afternoon Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," said the doctor, leaving the room.

/

They were released to go home the next day. Sherlock's doctor suggested that he hire a private nurse to help him adapt to his new sightless environment, but quickly withdrew the suggestion when he saw how close Sherlock was to throttling him.

John had been frustrated to receive a diagnosis of conversion disorder. _Typical,_ he had thought. _They can't explain what's happening, so they give me a diagnosis of an incurable psychological disease._

Sherlock was rapt to agree with the diagnosis, however, insisting that it only followed logically from the symptom and the circumstances of trauma. John could not even write out a retort to that, as Sherlock wouldn't have been able to read it.

Mrs. Hudson busied herself with cleaning the flat for them while they were in hospital, so when John and Sherlock arrived home, John gaped at the pristine floors and Sherlock maneuvered around nonexistent piles of stuff. John almost smiled at that.

The first thing Sherlock did was demand that John install JAWS on his computer, so that he'd be able to navigate it sightless. Then he'd demanded tea. John wanted to tell him off, but obviously couldn't. Luckily Mrs. Hudson tiptoed in and John scribbled out a note that said "Tea. For Sherlock."

"Do you want sugar, Sherlock?" she asked.

Sherlock sniffed. "Yes. Of course I do."

Meanwhile, John left to lie down in his bed and stare up at the ceiling. 


	2. Chapter 2

John had fallen asleep for a little while. Mrs. Hudson woke him by knocking on the door and chirping, "John, did you want me to make some lunch?"

John sighed and threw off his sheets. He pulled on his robe carefully over his bad arm as he walked to the door. He gave a curt wave upon opening the door and nodded in agreement to the idea of lunch.

Mrs. Hudson was standing there, her face glowing as usual. However, John noted a flinch in her cheery grin. "Have you seen Sherlock? Did he tell you where he was going?"

John felt like his heart was dropping down into his stomach. He looked at Mrs. Hudson, urgently, hoping for more details.

At the lack of conversation, Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to compensate. "I'm worried about him. He's not in the house anywhere, and his coat is missing. I was hoping you knew where he went."

John shook his head and nudged past the landlady. He hopped down the stairs and looked at the still uncluttered living room. With a silent growl of frustration, he checked his phone. No messages, no calls. Where the hell would Sherlock go?

John stared at his phone, uneasily. He couldn't call Sherlock, because he couldn't talk. He couldn't text him because Sherlock wouldn't be able to read the message. Determinedly John shrugged out of his dressing gown and into his jacket. He noticed with a small wave of relief that his cane was missing. At least Sherlock had a fraction of sense in him.

With less than no idea where to start looking, John headed out, grabbing a small notebook and pencil as he went. He sent a quick text to Mycroft, hoping the elder Holmes was keeping tabs on his brother as always.

_Please tell me you know where Sherlock is._

He sent one off to Lestrade as well.

_Is Sherlock with you?_

John didn't particularly feel like going through the pains of hailing a cab and writing down instructions for the driver, so he began walking toward Bart's, hoping to find Sherlock with Molly. 

John received a buzz on his phone and checked the message. It was from Lestrade.

_No, Sherlock isn't with me. I told him on the phone that he was not allowed to help this time. He should be recovering, why would I ask him to come out here?_

John frowned. So Sherlock had called Lestrade. It made sense; after all, the man was bound to be bored, trapped in his head with one less source of input. John pocketed his phone and trudged on toward the hospital.

Another message buzzed when he was crossing the street. Once he got to the sidewalk, he checked it.

_Why don't you know where Sherlock is? _The number was blocked, and John assumed that it was Mycroft.

Why don't _you_ know where Sherlock is? He shot back.

A momentary pause, then: _Anthea here. Mr. Holmes is on the continent in a meeting. He has obligation to stay. I will find Sherlock for you.  
_  
John sighed, but continued to Bart's.

/

Molly looked startled when John walked up to her in her office. "Oh…Dr. Watson, right? How's Sherlock?" she said, looking up at him with big, concerned eyes.

John held up his hands as if to say "Beats me."

"Oh, that's right! You've got a conversion disorder with your voice," said Molly, her tone apologetic. John steamed a little at that, but gestured at some paper on her desk before taking it and a clipboard. He scrawled a little message and showed it to Molly.

_Sherlock hasn't been here?_

"No," Molly answered confused. "Why would he be here? I thought he'd be resting at home."

John shrugged and wrote out another small message. He abhorred having to write his thoughts out to communicate.  
_  
If you see him, text me immediately._

He left without waiting for a response.

/

John felt hopelessly useless. He decided to return to the flat, opting to let "Anthea" take care of everything for him.

One last text stopped him on the way.

_John hace gktten lost. Need helpl. SH_


	3. Chapter 3

_Come on Sherlock,_ John thought. _You know I can't answer you. Give me more information._ John was even more frustrated than before. There was no way of knowing what part of town that Sherlock had wandered into, nor which of his enemies might happen upon him and take advantage of his weakness.

A few torturous minutes later, a new text came in. _Headed towars floucester but don't recognize any noises or smells. Nosounds of peopke or cars feel like I'm walkint in cirxles. Very unamusing._

John nodded to himself, guessing that Sherlock meant Gloucester Pl. He texted _I'm coming Sherlock _just so his friend would have the comfort of the return buzz on his phone. John wanted Sherlock to know that he was going to find him, despite the obstacles.

/

Sherlock felt the side of the bricks with his hand and tapped John's cane in front of him on the ground. It smelled like an alley. Like a rotten, dank alley. But why was the alley never ending? He knew he'd walked about 1000 meters down this way without coming to a dead end or an opening.

Hopefully he would find his way back to the main roads before John had to come in and rescue him. Mycroft must have been out of the country, judging by how long it was taking for someone to find him.

Everything was unfamiliar. It was unsettling and Sherlock felt as if he'd lost a limb. Forget his career, he couldn't even make a trip to the mobile device store without cocking it up. He still burned with humiliation remembering how he had tripped off a curb and had three or four young men laughing at him. He had politely turned back and told them to piss off, but then he had felt the heat from a car's engine right against his trouser leg and a car horn had gone off furiously at him.

Sherlock increased his pace angrily, just wanting to be out of the damn alley. Then, something alarming happened. The cane landed on something not quite soft like snow or garbage, but not nearly as solid as the dirt or pavement. A banshee's yell rose up from under him and some kind of animal darted between his legs. Sherlock attempted to quickly overstep the creature (probably just an alley cat) but his foot landed on some kind of bottle, which rolled and pitched him sideways and back. He seethed as sharp pains became noticeable on his hands. _Yes, fell in glass. Wonderful._

Sherlock got some more glass in one of his knees in an attempt to get back to his feet. He decided to stay down and wait for someone. Getting angry would only make him look more foolish than he already did. And he knew he was in no condition to pick slivers of glass out of his hands. 

Sherlock considered sending what he knew would be another mangled text to John, but opted against it. John knew his situation and was likely to be concerned enough as it was.

He instead began cataloguing the various stimuli he could still interpret. The sound of water dripping through a pipe. The smell of ammonia and rotting garbage. The feel of his torn trouser leg, and then _Ouch, don't touch anything!_

He was alerted to footsteps across the gravelly path. There was a fixed echo and he was unable to determine the direction the person was coming from. Maybe it was a transient. Perhaps an unruly teenager. Hopefully it was John.

Then, the steps were very close and someone had definitely noticed him, as whoever it was had gotten down on the ground next to him. "John? Is that you?" he asked, hopefully. A hand seized Sherlock's wrist, causing him to jump. "John?" And then, certainly it was John because there were strong arms grasping him to a body that smelled like lemongrass and corduroy and Pad Thai.

Sherlock grimaced as his burned cheek rubbed against John's abrasive jacket. "I was attempting to update my phone so the texts would read out. I misinterpreted my ability to navigate without all five senses."

The way that John didn't make any movements in response to what Sherlock had just said led Sherlock to believe that he was giving an eye roll. John shuffled a bit after that and stood up. He grabbed onto Sherlock's wrist with his good arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Now, shall we attempt to act as one functioning human being and go on to the mobile store?"

Sherlock felt his wrist grabbed again and John held it up in the air, as if wanting Sherlock to look at it. John faltered for a moment, then put his hand on Sherlock's chin and shook his head for him.

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose you'll want to mend my bloodied hands, then."

John patted him on the shoulder then, and tugged on his arm.

/

It was much easier getting back home than it had been to get lost. Of course, John did get them into a taxi, prompting Sherlock to tell the driver where to take them. They sped off toward Baker Street and Sherlock attempted to catalogue the twists and turns the driver was making to determine where he had ended up. It wasn't clear until they made it back to the flat that he had made a wrong turn on York and ended up walking a narrow alley parallel to Gloucester.

John led him upstairs and pushed him toward the bathroom. Sherlock sat on the lip of the tub while he listened to John rummaging through the detritus under the sink. He heard the distinct sounds of John carefully laying out supplies from three or four first aid kits. He heard clinking and pouring liquid and imagined that John was sterilizing tweezers or pins. Then there was a squeaky noise when John pulled on a single glove.

Then John was taking Sherlock's right hand in his and he gave a deep sigh, surveying the damage. It was a difficult process for John, who only had the use of one of his arms, his other one still stiff and painful and in its sling. For Sherlock, the endeavor was entirely too slow and meticulous. But, John was thorough and soon had all the tiny pieces of glass out of Sherlock and into a sharps container.

John led Sherlock over to the sink and motioned for him to wash his hands. When it was all finished, both men felt exhausted and said good night with a faint touch of their hands.


	4. Chapter 4

"John, do you know sign language?" was the question that woke him. John stuttered to a sitting position to find Sherlock, looking blankly ahead, holding his laptop and sitting on the edge of the bed.

John would have said "Very little," but of course could not, and didn't know why Sherlock was bothering to ask, when John would be unable to answer, and Sherlock would be unable to see any signs he did know.

Sherlock managed to look impatient behind the swollen burns on his face. "Type it into the program, John," he said, thrusting the computer toward the direction of John's rustling.

John was getting a little tired of Sherlock bossiness. He knew that it was in the man's nature, and he was likely twice as frustrated as usual because of his new handicap, but as John didn't have the ability to tell him off or even give him a dirty look, it was doubly as frustrating for him as well. John typed out a message with his good hand. The monophonic computer voice read out the sentence: "I know the alphabet, and a few common signs. Why?"

Sherlock nodded. "You can sign the alphabet into my hand," he said.

"Like Helen Keller?" John typed. He wished that he could make the computer voice sound sarcastic.

"Or, we could get your phone updated when I update mine," Sherlock prompted. His lip twitched upward into a smirk.

"Nice segueway," John typed. The computer voice mangled the word. "Give me some time to get ready."

Sherlock reached to clap John on the shoulder, in a brotherly way, but missed and nearly poked John in the eye. John fell back on the bed to avoid being hit.

"What just happened?" Sherlock asked. His face grew confused and concerned.

"Dot-dot-dot," John typed ironically.

"Whatever. We're going," Sherlock insisted, trying to grab John by the arm.

John wanted to shout at Sherlock to give him a minute! but had to settle for, "Stop. I'm not ready yet."

Sherlock made a sound of annoyance and stalked out of the room.

/

"CALLING JOHN WATSON," said the monophonic voice on Sherlock's mobile. Sherlock was thrilled when John's phone started buzzing. John just stared at his phone. Sherlock knew he couldn't answer. "Send me a text, John. I want to try it out."

John smiled at his friend's enthusiasm and typed a short message.

"NEW MESSAGE," Sherlock's phone announced. Sherlock pressed a button. "YOU ARE AN ARSE. HA. HA. HA." Sherlock narrowed his left eye at John. "Hilarious," he said sarcastically. "New text message," he told his phone. "To John Watson. You are imbecilic."

The phone took a pause, then said, "SENDING TEXT MESSAGE TO JOHN WATSON."

John hailed a cab and sat it in, leaving Sherlock standing on the sidewalk looking undeservedly glib for at least ninety seconds.

/

John awoke dazed and uncomfortably warm. There was a heavy weight laying across him, digging painfully into his hip bone and crushing the bones in his hand. Help…what happened? Doesn't make sense… he thought silently. Liquid dripped over his eye and down past his chin. He carefully reached up with his bad arm to determine the cause. Blood. Bad cut at his temple.

He searched his memories and tried to figure out how he'd gotten under the metal roofing. He looked to his right feeling like he was in some sort of stupor. Concussion, his mind provided. He blinked cautiously in the bright glow of the room and realized that the wall was on fire.

He'd been going for a few groceries. They'd needed pasta and protein powder, and Sherlock certainly wouldn't be going out to get it. Even if he wanted to, John would never let him out on his own for something like that. John had simply noticed that they were lacking a couple of their staple ingredients, had texted Sherlock, and headed out.

Then…there had been a child screaming inside of a building. Old red brick two-story. In need of renovation. Probably ideal for a couple of artist lofts. John had gone into soldier-mode and followed the sound of the child's cries. He thought he'd found the right room, and had pushed it open with little effort.

A little girl was crying for help. He had run throughout the abandoned apartment, trying to find her. He suddenly realized that she was in the adjacent apartment suite. He could hear her screaming through the wall. John could feel heat coming from the other side of the thin dividing wall.

Fire, he'd thought. Then he'd turned around to race to the other apartment when he was suddenly struck with something heavy. And then he'd fallen.

John couldn't move the massive piece of rusted ceiling. His good arm was crushed against his body and his other arm was still broken. His mobile was tucked away in his pocket. He could feel the phone's buttons through his trousers and he tapped away at them haphazardly. Maybe someone would figure out that he was in trouble.

The little girl had stopped screaming. He swallowed. She'd probably passed out from smoke inhalation…or worse.

Then, he suddenly heard a siren. _Thank God. Please, please hurry_, he thought, as flames licked closer to the spot where he was lying.

John coughed as the smoke passed over his head in an angry black swirl. The sirens grew nearer. At last, he heard footsteps in the hallway. He could hear people talking. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing in with the blood. A door was forced open in some other part of the house. He could hear movements and voices in the apartment on the other side of the wall.

Then, a few loud footsteps and the people were out in the hallway again. He heard a few clipped words and phrases: "…rescued victim…no other occupants…structural damage…collapse…abandoned building…"

_Oh god…they don't know I'm here. They don't know that I'm trapped in here, _John thought in horror. He tried to scream for help, to say anything, to bang with his feet and make noise but he couldn't. The metal on him was too heavy and even if he'd been able to talk, the smoke was choking him.

He shoved at the metal in a panic as he heard the footsteps and voices fading away. It wouldn't budge. He cringed as it sank harder against his stomach. He suddenly felt very claustrophobic. And very scared.


	5. Chapter 5

John tried to swallow around the roughness of his parched throat. He kept playing at his mobile, hoping that he'd be able to reach someone, somehow. His thoughts turned black as he concluded that even if someone did receive a garbled text from him, they'd have no idea where to find him.

John's strength was fading. He couldn't even budge the metal covering him anymore. Now it was just a burden, crushing him into the floor. His stomach cramped and his hand and leg were points of concentrated agony. John could see thick smoke collecting across the ceiling, becoming more and more dark and unruly.

_Sherlock…_ John said to himself. He wanted his friend to be his final thought.

John thought he was beginning to hallucinate because he heard voices and banging noises in the hallway. He blinked away the stinging smoke as he opened his eyes. He strained his ears to the sounds coming from other parts of the building. It was difficult to tell what was happening, or if there were any sounds at all. A long silence forced him to recognize that it was his imagination.

Then the door swung open. Two policemen and three paramedics entered the room.

"Dr. Watson!" one of the yarders said. Hannigan, John thought his name was. The man knelt beside John and checked him for any visible injuries that were potentially fatal. The paramedics and the other policeman worked at removing the metal roof from John's body.

A tear made of pain, relief, and smoke irritation slipped from John's face.

"You're going to be all right, Doctor," Hannigan said, clasping John's shoulder tightly. "Don't worry. We're going to get you out."

/

John was rolled out of the house on a stretcher. A crew of firemen passed by to contain the fire. John looked ahead to the ambulance, not bothering to protest a trip to the hospital. Something in his hand was definitely broken and he needed treatment for the smoke inhalation.

"No! You told me you would find him! Dammit, he's in the building!"

"Sherlock, it's being taken care of! I've sent two teams up there. If he's in there, they'll find him!"

"I'm going to find him myself, get out of my way-"

"Like hell you are! Sherlock-Sherlock, there! It's John! They've found him!"

John turned his head to investigate the source of all the yelling. Lestrade was holding Sherlock by the arm to prevent him from running toward the burning house.

"He's-is he-where…" Sherlock struggled to keep his voice and his emotions steady.

John was deeply affected by the show of emotion. He reached his relatively unharmed hand out toward Sherlock. Lestrade caught the gesture and began leading Sherlock toward the ambulance.

Sherlock panicked when Lestrade placed one of his hands on the side of the stretcher. "Oh god, he's going in an ambulance? What's wrong? Is he conscious? John?"

Sherlock was groping for John's hand on the small bed. Before John had the chance to cover Sherlock's hand with his own, one of the paramedics interfered. "Sir, we have to get this man to the hospital. You can visit him there."

Sherlock was becoming more and more upset as no one was telling him what had happened to John. He forcefully shoved the paramedic out of the way and placed his hands across John's chest. John caught Sherlock's upper arm in his weak hand, hoping that his touch was reassuring.

"John…" Sherlock whimpered. Tears were dripping down his face unchecked.

Lestrade held the paramedics off as Sherlock ran his hands across John's face and upper body, feeling for injuries and damage. His fingers lingered over the bleeding gash in John's head. He traced John's cheekbone lightly, affectionately.

Suddenly, Sherlock began to look ill. John tried to grab onto him as Sherlock turned white and stumbled a bit. Lestrade ended up catching the detective on his plummet to the ground. Both of them were loaded into an ambulance and driven to the hospital.

/

The smell of industrial antiseptic and sterilized plastic was the first sensory input Sherlock had. His mobile buzzing and then announcing "NEW TEXT MESSAGE FROM JOHN WATSON," was the second.

Sherlock blinked up into the darkness, reaching up a hand to rub his itchy face. His arm was stopped short by a device that pinched his hand. Sherlock shifted his legs in the unfamiliar bed. _Hospital_ he reasoned. He cleared his throat, then groped at the bedside table for his phone.

"HOW DID YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME?" was the message the phone stated.

"Reply to John-" Sherlock began to instruct the phone. A rustling noise at his side interrupted him. "John?" he asked. It stood to reason that only one person could be in his hospital room with him and be unable to talk.

Sherlock suddenly recalled the house fire, and the unintelligible messages John had sent him. "John…" he whispered. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Sherlock reached his hand out toward the sound of the rustling jeans. A cold hand gently grasped onto Sherlock's hand and squeezed. "I tracked you with GPS, John," Sherlock explained. "The police were already on the scene when I arrived, but they had only found a child inside. I told them that you were there…I didn't know if you had survived…" Sherlock held tightly to the hand. "You're…are you okay?"

Sherlock began to feel a little shame at his impromptu collapse at the scene of the fire. John was apparently fairing better than he was, and he had been the one trapped inside the burning house. In response to Sherlock's question, a hand gently stroked over the inside of his arm.

And Sherlock froze. John only had the use of one of his arms at the moment, and one of them was already clutching his hand. Sherlock ran a couple of scenarios through his head. Not Mycroft. He wouldn't-_couldn't_-be silent that long. Not Lestrade. Lestrade would not hold Sherlock's hand. At least not without saying something. Nurse wasn't likely, but it wasn't impossible either.

Sherlock inhaled the scent of expensive cologne and he knew exactly who was holding his hand. "Shit…" Sherlock breathed, and then cold metal was pressed up against his throat.

/

John changed positions in his bed for the eighth time. There was no getting comfortable with IVs and nasal cannulae tubes tangled all over him. Thankfully, it was getting easier to breathe, and his bruised body was being relieved of its pain due to his little supply of morphine.

More than anything, however, John couldn't get comfortable without being able to check on Sherlock. Lestrade was still investigating the scene of the fire, and none of the nurses or doctors paid John anymore attention than necessary to sustain his life. Normally, a request would have been made to put them in the same room. Unfortunately, John couldn't make such a request, and had been carted off to the ICU. Sherlock had been placed in a simple recovery room. His affliction hadn't been that serious. John's only link to the outside world had been his mobile, which was brought to his bedside table along with his wallet and set of keys. John has sent off a text to Sherlock, hoping his friend would be awake to receive it. John laid back and tried to sleep, placing his mobile on his chest so it would wake him if a message came through.


	6. Chapter 6

"So glad I was able to swing by and visit you in the hospital," Moriarty said cheerfully as he strapped Sherlock's wrists tightly to the bed with soft leather cuffs. He kept the gun in contact with Sherlock's throat to remind him of the threat. "You don't know how worried I was when I heard about your condition!"

"What are you planning to do? Put on a white coat and wheel me out of here like nothing is out of the ordinary?" Sherlock challenged. "You won't get past the nurse's station."

Moriarty chuckled and ran his fingertips lightly over Sherlock's collarbone. "And just what would I want to do with your big, ruined body, Sherlock? You're no threat to me now, just an annoying little eyesore on the face of London." Moriarty pulled his hand away, and put the gun away in his pocket. "No, I can entertain myself with you laying right where you are. I hope nothing unusual happens with your care schedule tonight. I'd hate to come back in the morning and find that they've removed half of your brain, or had a mysterious accident which resulted in you losing your hearing."

Sherlock suppressed a growl of irritation. Moriarty was just toying with him. Sherlock wanted to know why he had bothered to come at all. It made him edgy to be unable to guess the man's motives.

"Hold still," Moriarty whispered softly.

"What-" Sherlock croaked as Jim's hand covered his mouth forcefully. There was a sharp pinch against his throat, then crushing pressure. When Moriarty pulled his hand away, Sherlock realized that he had lost his voice to whatever injection he'd just been given. His vocal cords were paralyzed, then.

"I do love you, Sherlock," Moriarty said, petting Sherlock's hair, "but I don't love your silly little pet. I'm afraid he's going to have to go."

Sherlock kicked viciously upon realizing the threat. His body was becoming sluggish, so likely a sedative in the injection too.

"I'm sorry," Moriarty said, sounding sincere. "But it's for the best, you know."

Sherlock could hear him leave. He could hear the door shut, and he could feel his wrists straining against the leather straps. He felt his body shutting down, as his brain struggled to surge above it all, trying desperately to stay awake, to scream, to bang against the metal sides of the bed.

None of it worked.

/

Jim rode in the elevator up to the ICU. A little makeup and a hat were disguise enough. No one would remember him. The security videos would go strangely absent.

John Watson. Room 419B. He patted the needle in his pocket. Same stuff he'd given Sherlock, but twice the dose. Enough to send Dr. Watson into sleep forever.

Jim walked into John's room, unhindered by any of the staff, thanks to the fourteen trauma victims that had just been carted in. Jim smiled. He so loved being able to cause chaos.

He stood beside the bed, watching John's twitching face as he slept uncomfortably. His mobile was sitting idly on his chest, rocking a bit with every shaky breath the doctor took. Jim giggled. Maybe it would be fun to remove all the breathing apparatuses and watch him choke and wheeze for a bit.

Jim laid his hand on the tube connected to John's oxygen mask. At about the same time, he felt the barrels of two guns against the back of his head.

"Don't move," said one of the people behind him.

John's eyes were open and he turned a fierce glare at Jim.

Jim smiled at him. "Is it a crime to visit my dear old friend in the hospital?" he said innocently.

His hands were pulled roughly behind him and shackled. "That's enough out of you, Mr. Moriarty," said the man behind him.

Jim frowned. "No fun," he muttered.

/

Sherlock was cold. He was also sleepy and his limbs felt dulled. His took a deep breath and attempted to stretch.

He panicked. Something was holding onto his arm. He tried to yell, but his throat was tight and unyielding. The grip on his arm tightened.

_John…_ he remembered. Sherlock tried to rip his arm away from the leather cuff. The grip loosened, but didn't release him.

"Shhhh," whispered a faint voice.

Sherlock steadied his breathing. Had Moriarty been a dream? Who was holding his hand now? He reached over with his left arm to investigate. Thin hospital dressing gown. Strong, muscular shoulder. One arm in a sling.

_John_, he knew.

/

Marill: Yes, I know I got some splainin to do, but I am so tired, and I just want to sleep now, k? K. 


	7. Chapter 7

"I can't trust that you'll stay out of trouble even while you're in the hospital, can I, Sherlock?"

Sherlock growled. " 'o 'way, Mycruff…" he slurred. He twisted his body in frustration in the bed.

"Well, I'm sure it will be no surprise to you that your little playmate got away," Mycroft went on. He had changed positions. He was standing in front of the window, presumably. Sherlock could feel John tense up next to him. "I regret that I wasn't able to mobilize my reserves quickly enough, and we all know how very reliable our friends at Scotland Yard are…"

Sherlock swallowed against his dry throat. He reached out and managed to knock a glass of water onto the linoleum floor. He felt John cringe at that.

Mycroft's voice suggested a frown. "Anyway, you have your friend from the morgue to thank. Her quick thinking in response to Dr. Watson's messages was enough to get security mobilized for an ambush at least."

John was clicking on his phone. He let go of Sherlock's hand. " 'ow…" Sherlock tried to say around his raspy vocal cords. He cleared his throat. "How did you know?" His voice was weak and wispy, but comprehendible.

Sherlock's phone announced a new text and John opened it for him. "I GOT A PLAY-BY-PLAY OF YOUR WHOLE CONVERSATION WITH MORYART." A pause. More clicking "JIM."

Sherlock smiled at the implausible luck. "He didn't hurt you…?" he asked solemnly.

A throat cleared. A breath was inhaled. Then, "No."

/

They requested a visit from Molly, in which John gave her a hug and Sherlock patronized her, but only a little. Mycroft left soon after Molly did, promising to keep away any investigators looking for a statement.

John, still exhausted from his injuries, but too keyed up to leave Sherlock, climbed into bed with his friend. The pair intertwined fingers and rested, both of them excited at John's returning speech. It was all something to be sorted later, after a lot of sleep and recovery.

/

Sherlock woke up before John, light from the window bright against his face with the setting sun. It was uncomfortably warm with the surplus of body heat and Sherlock found himself trying to inch away without waking John unnecessarily.

He rolled onto his side and a flash of silver blitzed across his brain. It was so startlingly out of place that Sherlock wondered if the drug he'd been given was some form of hallucinogen. Then, there was a streak of bright white, and Sherlock's eyes opened. And everything was there. Strands of hair across his left eye, cream walls, white sheets, metal rails on the bed, the uncomfortably bright window…And then, to his right, was John. Sleeping, docile, exhausted John.

His phone announced a new text. Acting on impulse, Sherlock grabbed for it and read his text, _actually read it_.

_I couldn't bear to win by default, Sherlock. The game is still on. JM._

"John…" Sherlock breathed. Then, with excitement, "John!"

/

Sherlock was cleared to leave the hospital at once. John would have to stay an extra night and assumed that his flat mate would be rushing home to use his regained sight to hunt for Moriarty. Sherlock surprised him by setting up a miniature command center on the small sofa in John's hospital room. He had casually explained that with his laptop and mobile, he could work just as well as he could from home.

At around midnight when John had exhausted any desire to watch anymore television, he noticed Sherlock slumped over the glowing screen of the computer. Unable to make a very loud request with his mouth, John threw a paper cup at Sherlock and hit him dead on the chin.

Sherlock startled awake and looked at John, confused. "Bed," John croaked, patting a small sliver of mattress at his side.

"It's a little cramped sharing a bed with you, John," Sherlock said, remembering how uncomfortable that had been the night before. "I'll just clear away my things…" He began shifting the computer.

John coughed. "You…skinny…I can…suck it in…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh, really?" he said, grinning at John's unfortunate choice of words.

This time the TV remote hit Sherlock squarely in the chest, which was the equivalent of a polite invitation to John's bed.

/

In the middle of the night when John was half-asleep and Sherlock was just leaping out of a nightmare, their lips found each other powerful, hasty. John awoke quickly, kissing back with intensity and grasping the back of Sherlock's neck with his hand. Sherlock clutched at John's back desperately, the nightmare of his friend's death fading from his mind. A tear rolled off his face, landing on John's cheek. John broke the kiss and nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, whispering comfort.

"It's over," he said. "We're okay."

Sherlock rested his chin on John's head. "It's never going to be over John."

In the faint light of the moon, John lifted his head and Sherlock saw his eyes sparkle. "I hope not."

/

Marill: I'm so sorry this took so long! And sorry to make it end like this. But hopefully everyone enjoyed the ride! Happy holiday! :D


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